


S.O.S. écrit avec de l'air

by HopeForTheWitch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29666970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeForTheWitch/pseuds/HopeForTheWitch
Summary: Ron’s expression speaks volumes, red-rimmed eyes. There’s not exactly pity on his face, but it’s something Harry doesn’t like regardless. “Harry, mate, don’t you remember?”“No, you’re mistaken,” Harry says, shaken. “Sirius is fine. I saw him—I saw him!”After a raid goes wrong at the ministry, something odd is going on with Harry. Awake!AU
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I should _not_ be posting this thing yet, considering I've not finished it yet. Working on chapter 3 slowly but surely, which _should_ be the last one... I say 'should', just in case. Also, please note that the Archive Warning says **Major Character Death** , in case you ignore those. If you know the show Awake, then this is obvious, but I wanted to repeat it just in case.

Harry dreams of nothing at all, which is unusual, because Harry dreams every night and remembers the majority of it. This has been the case since he’s been a young child, and he doesn’t know any better, so to have a dreamless sleep is disconcerting to say the least. It feels as though he merely blinked rather than slept for hours, though he must have.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he yawns and sits up.

Then his eyes widen.

Shard sits in his chair in the corner, the one nobody understands its purpose of, his legs crossed and his hands folded on top of his knee as he watches Harry wake up. “Good morning,” he greets, tone mild. Between his hands is the pocket watch he prefers despite wearing a wrist watch as well, its chain glinting in the morning sun. Ever since they started Hogwarts, it’s borne Slytherin’s crest on the front, Harry’s initials on the back.

“Good—where _were_ you tonight?” Harry breathes, heart in his throat at the familiar sight. “I didn’t dream _at all_.” He throws the duvet off and gets up, coming closer until he stands at Shard’s side and then he kneels on the carpet, grimacing only slightly because he’s still sore from fighting at the ministry, followed by restless sleep.

Shard blinks and moves his head back and to the side, ridding himself of hair in his face. “I apologise.” He looks as prim and proper as he always does, choosing to wear a Muggle suit today. “I was out and about,” he says. “Checking up on your little friends, as you’ve asked me to do multiple times.”

Harry’s makes a low noise in the back of his throat. “Did you have to do that while I was sleeping?” he complains. “Like I said, I didn’t dream. It was weird, alright.”

Shard seems amused by that. “Yes, _like I said_ ,” he says, mimicking Harry. He’s good at mimicking Harry, because sometimes he _is_ Harry.

Harry sighs and closes his eyes when Shard’s hand drops down on top of the crown of his head, sagging against the apparition’s legs with a groan because Shard gives the best scalp massages.

*

Shard is Harry’s imaginary friend.

Aunt Petunia _hated_ that Harry had an imaginary friend, and for a very long time the family believed that he was a ghost only Harry was freakish enough to see. But then they were introduced to the Wixen world, and even though it turned out Harry wasn’t the only freak around, he was _still_ the only one able to see Shard.

By then, this suited Harry just fine, a little possessive of his friend.

Shard’s been with him for as long as they can remember. While Shard’s memory generally functions better than Harry’s, his memories don’t go further than his in this regard. Shard can’t do anything on his own, so he made Harry read _a lot_ when they first entered this new world. None of this explained his existence, however, nothing did, not until they ran into one Tom Marvolo Riddle in Harry’s second year.

And then everything fell into place, because Shard was smart enough to realise that instead of worrying about the missing pieces of a puzzle, he could just look at the box it came in to see what it was supposed to look like. They didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to _be_ , but they now understood what form he was supposed to take, and for the first time in twelve years, he was suddenly older than Harry.

The diary hadn’t been amused by this, but then, he didn’t seem to have a drop of humour in him to spare for such things in the first place. 

They hadn’t known about horcruxes then, all of that came later.

 _Later_ was last year, when he stood in Dumbledore’s office with his fists clenched, a pensieve between them, and Shard’s continued existence was shoved roughly into a box labelled _Things We Don’t Talk About_ , its contents fairly similar to the box labelled _Things Nobody Needs To Know About._

*

Harry is still tired and Shard’s hand in his hair isn’t helping with that, because Shard knows him to his bones, which includes but is not limited to knowing how to touch him to get him to relax, how to stave off that upcoming headache.

“Hmm, Tom,” Harry sighs.

“Harry,” Shard says, and Harry can hear the tight smile. “Just relax, they’ll—”

“Harry!” That’s unmistakably Ron’s voice and then there’s loud banging on the door.

“Or not,” Harry mutters, leaning into Shard’s touch for a split second before getting up with a groan. 

Shard pulls him close by his shirt. “Ignore them,” he purrs.

Harry intends to give him a single light peck, but that never works. He makes the mistake to go for a second kiss, and he gets easily distracted, pulled into a lap. Shard knows just what buttons to push, clever fingers curling around his wrists and holding them behind his back as he stifles a moan. “ _Shard, stop_ ,” he hisses quietly.

“I could make it worth your while,” Shard says, one hand trailing down Harry’s chest, coming to rest on his hip. “You know I—” 

Ron kicks the door. “I know you’re awake!” he threatens.

Shard sighs. “Alright, fine,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

Harry rolls his eyes at the petulant apparition then gets up and opens the door with a raised eyebrow, narrowly avoiding Ron’s fist as he’s ready to pound on the door once more. 

“Oh, sorry,” Ron’s smile is grim as he lowers his arm again. “Glad to see you up and about.”

Ron and Hermione are the only ones with permission to get up on the top floor of Grimmauld Place. When he casts the door to Sirius’ bedroom a quick glance, it’s open, a crutch leaning against the far wall and his secondary brace at the foot of the bed. Harry frowns. It has to be later in the morning than he realised if Sirius is already up.

Then he remembers and his mouth dries up.

  
*

Two years ago, Harry experienced a bout of stupidity in regards to listening to Shard’s wisdom, rushing right into a trap that Shard had tried to warn him about. Harry had been full of fear and he’d fallen for the bait, not willing to take the chance that it was real. Sirius got badly injured, off his feet for half a year and unable to walk for very long periods of time after.

It seems Harry doesn’t learn from his mistakes, and neither does Sirius.

Did.

Neither did Sirius.

*

_Darkness, they’re falling, the voices calling._

_Harry screams himself hoarse but he’s already gone._

*

“Oh,” he says softly, just this side of broken, pulled back into the here and now when Ron slings an arm around his shoulders with a knowing grimace. What a fucking wake-up call this is, eyes shuttered. He swallows thickly, tries to get rid of the lump of loss clogging his throat. He longs to be in Shard’s arms, but Ron is there instead, and suddenly Hermione joins them, climbing on the bed with a mournful sound, her hair tickling his nose.

Unexpectedly leaning her weight into them, she accidentally topples all three of them over, but they don’t move away from the bed, curling up together instead, Harry in the middle, because that’s just what they do when things get too much. 

“I told him not to come,” Harry whispers, clutching Hermione’s arm and Ron’s wrist, his voice breaking. “He didn’t listen,” he hiccoughs, “because he never just _listens_.”

“It’s Sirius,” Hermione sniffs, wiping at her cheeks with her free hand. “That’s what he does. Did. That’s what he—that’s what he did.”

“He wanted to—” Ron’s chest rumble falls silent. “He just wanted to be there for you.”

“I _warned_ him,” Harry wheezes and he squeezes his eyes shut.

 **_Don’t blame us_** , Shard whispers in his ear, unheard by his companions, **_it’s not our fault_**.

Ron clears his throat. “He saved you, you know, and that’s all he wanted.”

“What do you mean?” Because Harry’s memories of the moment are fuzzy, he knows they took a dangerous tumble courtesy of Bellatrix and somehow Harry survived while Sirius—

“His magic shielded you, protected you from the fall,” Hermione explains, gently wiping stray strands of hair out of Harry’s eyes. “Ron’s right, Harry, that’s all he wanted for you, to survive.”

—Sirius was at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide open, and even in sleep there’d been more in him, and in his haste Harry had slipped the last few steps, heart in his throat, spells whizzing past. Time had paused for long seconds, but then there’d been a horrible scream, someone yelling _his_ name, and that’s where the memories stop.

“Breathe, Harry,” Hermione murmurs.

He’s trying, but all Harry can see is Sirius lying motionless on the stone steps, his frame so utterly still that Harry’d known something was wrong even before he realised what that was, and now he’s gone and Harry doesn’t know where to shove the pain that’s taking a tour of his body, that leaves him freezing and breathless and unmoored.

“Follow my breaths,” Ron says.

 **_Listen to your friend_** , Shard advises through their mental connection.

Harry is too cold to be contrary.

*

“Harry, stop,” Sirius chuckles, keeping him at arm’s length. His arms are longer and he’s as strong as he’s built and he’s holding on firmly to Harry’s shoulders and Harry’s lithe frame isn’t helpful in this instance at all.

“It’s the only thing I can do to you,” Harry pouts, fingertips grasping at Sirius’ Christmas sweater, because who would have thought Sirius is ticklish?

Sirius picks Harry up then throws him down in the thick packet of snow in Grimmauld Place’s backyard, except he misjudges because his legs aren’t what they used to be and he slips and falls with a grunt right next to the sixteen year old. “Shit,” he sighs, hair full of snow, and Harry bursts into laughter. “What’s that they say, instant karma?”

“Yes,” Harry grins, and then he has to fight the urge to brush the snow out of Sirius’ curls.

Shard laughs loudly from where he’s hovering and watching them, clapping his hands with delight. “Oh, you are in _trouble_ ,” the apparition smirks and he disappears before Harry gets a chance to throw a handful of snow in his direction.

*

Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, understanding vaguely that he shouldn’t stay in bed so long but Ron and Hermione are comfortable, the bed is soft and the memories are sharp and painful in their intensity.

But all things must come to an end, and so when Mrs. Weasley politely knocks on the door and opens it before waiting for a response, Harry merely sighs before getting up, ignoring the worried looks from his friends and Mrs. Weasley. They can’t know what his loss means to Harry, because he hasn’t told anyone what it means, and now…

Now it doesn’t matter anymore what was or wasn’t between them.

Or worse, _what could have been_.

It could’ve been beautiful, it could’ve been a disaster, and it could’ve been nothing at all.

*

Shard appears with him in the shower, and a lifetime of mutual understanding and exchange between them means Harry easily leans into his embrace and Shard catches him, turns him so they’re front to back. He’s not crying, he hasn’t yet, but it’s bubbling impatiently under his skin, his nose prickling, helpless sobs building up in his chest.

Shard’s comfort is silent, because when he speaks, he cuts, and that’s not the type of treatment Harry needs right now. What he needs is strong arms around him and a firm chest to fall back against. Harry stares at the tiles as water crashes down his front, keeps him warm even as his back is starting to get really cold with Shard pressed up against him.

Shard mouths at his shoulders in lieu of speaking, holding him until Harry starts to feel worse rather than better, his thoughts taking a dangerous turn. Shard bites down, not hard enough to pierce Harry’s skin but hard enough to warn him off. “Stop that,” he orders.

*

When he comes downstairs, several people are standing around the kitchen table. 

The kitchen hasn’t been used for anything but war meetings since the beginning of last winter, though Mrs. Weasley certainly tried. On the kitchen table there is a map of Hogwarts and its grounds. Harry stares blankly at it, fingers touching the colourful pawns sat on the old paper while Moody debriefs them about their experience at the ministry, first Hermione, then Ron, and then it’ll be his turn.

It’s more of an interrogation than a debriefing, but they’ve become used to this, it’s become part of the way things are. Ron stands at attention like the good soldier he’s turned into, listening patiently and carefully to what their unofficial general has to say. Hermione stands further back, arms crossed and nodding along, flanked by Remus and Tonks. More people are present at the meeting, but they’re watching silently through the two-way mirror that’s resting against a large, heavy vase on the table.

“They’ll be coming in through the forest,” Remus says, pointing out each of the three pawns representing Death Eaters on the map.

“We’ve set a perimeter,” Neville says through the mirror, acting as a spokesperson for Hogwarts at the moment. He looks to the side for a second, as if listening to something, then nods and looks back at them. “They’re setting the traps as we speak.”

They must be moving the pawns on the map at Hogwarts, because the three pawns fall over, rolling for a second or two before coming to a stop. Two more pawns appear, white ones this time, and they walk around the border, patrols no doubt. Harry still thinks it’s a bit presumptuous to choose white for their colours, because Shard always makes sure to point out that both sides think they’re doing the world a favour, and even though Harry hates that point of view, even though he firmly disagrees with Voldemort’s side, he knows Shard’s right about that at least.

Moody didn’t like that view the one time Harry was dumb enough to point it out. Claimed that it humanised the enemy too much, and the last thing they needed was hesitation in the face of a threat. Better to believe them beasts rather than people with their own thoughts and opinions. 

Most of the Order agreed with him, though not Sirius.

But then, Sirius spent twelve years among Death Eater company, and nothing humanises people quite like shared torment and torture does.

Sirius, who can’t share any of his controversial opinions anymore.

Sirius, who isn’t there to share his dark humour with anymore.

 **_It will be alright_** , Shard whispers, **_with enough time you’ll forget the hurt_**.

But Harry doesn’t want to forget the way this hurts, and he doesn’t believe it’ll ever stop either. He didn’t expect loss to be this painful, has never lost anyone this close to home before. He’s watched it happen to others, and he thought he knew what it would be like, but boy, was he mistaken. The pain is an almost visceral thing, he can feel it when he breathes in and then again when he breathes out.

 **_You think this now_** , Shard says with disapproval dripping from his voice, **_don’t think it doesn’t hurt me too. I feel what you feel, remember? But I’m telling you right now, we will be alright, I_ ** **promise** **_you_**. He shimmers into existence, expression unreadable as his fingers wrap around Harry’s wrist, cold fingertips pressed against his pulse. “I didn’t say we would forget him.”

“ _Just the pain_ ,” Harry hisses quietly. Though the others in the kitchen must’ve heard him, they’re used to him hissing to himself, as it’s something he’s been doing since before he met them. It’s part of him, and while they may find it a weird habit, nobody’s surprised by it anymore.

“Just the pain,” Shard repeats, and then he disappears again, though he’s far from gone, always there for him, his steady presence everlasting.

*

Shard is kind enough to take over for him when conversation takes a turn toward something or other that needs actual concentration, because Harry has no idea what’s going on. He moves through the day as if moving through a swamp. 

Time has slowed down and he’s watching the proceedings from afar, yet the only times he’s felt more trapped in the present than now has been during battles. It takes him a long time to process what’s going on. He hears himself respond to questions but otherwise he’s silent.

They give him a wide berth, because everyone’s experienced their own type of loss and most understand that what he _doesn’t_ need is empty words and broken promises, he just needs space to figure himself out.

The fog has receded enough by the time afternoon tea comes around that Harry feels comfortable taking the reigns again. He feels Shard pull back, his entire body underwater for a split second, drowning before he can breathe again. Shard retreats though he stays a permanent fixture in his peripheral vision.

*

Shard isn’t called Shard because he happens to be a soul shard: it’s because his presence is like a splinter wedged deep under the skin, gone soft with age and wear, an ache that’s turned into a comfort because it’s a constant. Things might become different in his life, but the splinter will always be there, insusceptible to change.

Harry believes Shard is stronger than Harry in many ways. He’s turned himself into a stronghold with the help of occlumency, different from Harry, whose occlumency lessons with Snape damaged any hopes of ever mastering the art. Shard _remembers_ things, always reading over Harry’s shoulder.

During his early youth, Shard protected Harry from influence by others. It kept him isolated, but at least he wasn’t getting hurt by fair weather friends, or worse, the words of his aunt and uncle. 

Then he entered Hogwarts and Ron and Hermione came into his life, and somehow they too wedged themselves deep into his skin. Later, Shard would admit that he’d been too distracted by Hogwarts and all the new shiny things the castle offered to pay much attention to whom Harry was socialising with, and by the time he realised it, it’d already been too late, friendships had been formed. That’s when Harry learned that Shard feels what Harry feels. Though it’s to a lesser degree, Harry’s feelings for his friends and family are strong enough that Shard’s affected by them.

It was good that Harry knew of this, because it meant that when they discovered Shard shared a sort of kinship with the diary, Harry didn’t entertain for a second that Shard might turn on him. The notion was inconceivable; where the diary was a mirror, Harry and Shard were one.

Shard is everything to Harry, but he’s sharp, and sometimes, just sometimes, his presence is akin to broken glass stuck in bare feet, like nails on a chalkboard, scratching him open from the inside out and bleeding him dry.

“It will pass,” Shard says, easily heard over the quietude in the living room. He sits on Harry’s armrest, legs crossed at the ankles, and he’s wearing a pageboy hat that he messes around with. It looks ridiculous but it doesn’t make him any less handsome. “Time scars all types of wounds, even those—” 

“ _Spare me your wisdom,_ ” Harry hisses sharply. Ever since he absorbed the locket a few months ago, there’s been an arrogance to Shard that Harry can’t reconcile with the person he grew up with, a change Harry isn’t comfortable with. 

Shard wants to go by _Tom_ now, says that Tom Riddle is who he is. Harry made it through three whole months before he slipped up and called him _Shard_ again, at which point Shard had looked at him with something resembling regret so strongly that seeing it almost physically pained Harry.

“I apologise,” Shard says testily, throwing the pageboy hat from one hand to the other. “I merely wanted to help.”

With effort, Harry manages to keep his next words between them, **_Don’t, please_**. Before the lessons with Snape, he used to be able to speak into their mindspace easily. Part of the reason so much got destroyed is that they had to make sacrifices to keep Shard hidden from the man. **_Just let me be._ **

“See, I don’t think that’s the solution to what you’re feeling right now. What _we_ are feeling, because you forget that I am also hurting because of this,” Shard says waspishly. “I, too, enjoyed his presence. You’re not alone in this,” he adds a tad sharply. “I lost him too, you know.”

Harry swallows when Shard disappears with a tired sigh.

*

The moon shines brightly above Hogwarts though there are no stars in the yellow-hued sky, snow obscuring the sight. Harry is seventeen years old but he leans against the window, nose pressed up against the glass, and he watches the first snow of the season with bated breath the way he would’ve when he was seven. It’s beautiful.

“You wanna go outside?” Sirius asks.

Harry’s breath comes out in a rush. “You sure?” He looks at Sirius through the reflection in the glass, biting his lip as he contemplates the idea of messing around in the snow with him. It sounds like it could be fun, it sounds like it could be dangerous too. He snuck into the castle in animagus form, nobody knows he’s here, the Room of Requirement hosting him in secret. 

“Look at all that undisturbed snow,” Sirius cajoles, coming closer until he’s right behind Harry. “It’s just _begging_ for it, isn’t it?” he whispers in Harry’s ear, so impossibly near that he sends Harry’s head spinning.

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees with a shaky smile.

*

The Order meeting resumes late in the afternoon, with more people present than there were this morning. There’s a copy of the map hanging off the wall in the kitchen where unmoving pins have been used instead of the pawns on the table. Not all pins are where they’re supposed to be, which Harry knows has been done on purpose, because they’re still not sure there’s not a spy in their midst. 

Moody, who has forcefully taken the lead after Dumbledore died, clears his throat, and a hush falls over the kitchen. “The Death Eaters have been camping out near the forests right here,” he says in a clear voice, fingers pointing at the pins in the hanging map.

“We should raid them,” someone immediately says.

“We tried that already,” a second person says snippily, “and in case you forgot, we lost a great many people that night.”

“Both of you, quiet,” Moody barks, clearly irritated at being interrupted. “Recent intel has them moving in on Saturday. We must be ready by then.”

There are gasps all around. They’ve known the Death Eaters were planning on taking the castle on Saturday for a while now, at least the inner circle of the Order of the Phoenix had known, which—despite Mrs. Weasley’s protests—includes Harry, Ron and Hermione, because Dumbledore alluded to their importance in a letter, and that was apparently more than enough for a part of the order to decide to put the trio on pedestals.

Harry doesn’t weigh in on what’s going on, but Shard does, delivering carefully worded insults that only Harry can hear and that make the boy smile despite himself. Tomorrow they’ll be going to Hogwarts under the guise of preparation, though really it’s because they suspect that the spy, whoever it is, will tip off the other side and the Death Eaters will rush them earlier than planned.

“What went wrong at the ministry, do we know yet?” someone asks when they’re about to wrap up. “Do we get to point fingers?” Oh, that has to be Tonks.

“No pointing fingers,” Remus says mildly. He looks exhausted. “There was a moment where we were outnumbered, because their reinforcements were there faster than ours. We think they were already on their way by the time we called for backup.”

In other words, they were tipped off, but they’re keeping mum about that. If someone doesn’t get what’s being unsaid, they probably don’t need to know in the first place, at least that’s the thinking behind it, Harry knows. It’s how Remus prefers to operate.

*

“Make me forget,” Harry whispers.

“That’s not—” Shard begins.

“Do it anyway,” Harry says.

Shard kisses him, soft and sweet, his hands cold as ice as they travel down Harry’s body, taking him in hand, cupping his half-hard erection through his pyjamas. It takes only a few strokes to get his cock with the programme, and then those cold fingers lift the waistband of his pyjamas, fingers curling around him and taking care of him with short but powerful strokes. 

It’s not enough to shake the weight off his shoulders. 

Instead of feeling better, all his impending orgasm does is make him feel worse, and he comes with a sob, tears streaming down his temples as he stares up at the blurred ceiling.

*

That night there are no shared dreams wherein Harry can walk around and inspect old memories, where Shard is warm and comfortable as they sit under a tree in the bright sun, where Harry hurls fireballs through the air and watches in delight as they explode in the distance. 

In fact, there are no dreams at all.

Harry wakes up and he feels empty, the echoes of frost settled between his ribs and goosebumps on his arms, a shiver running down his spine. Something doesn’t feel right. He feels alone, like something is _missing_ , something large and important, but he can’t tell what it is until the silence finally gets to him and he breaks it by asking the air, “Tom?”

But Shard is—

Shard is _gone_.

Harry frowns and absently rubs his chest as he roots around in his mindspace, looking for evidence to the contrary, but all he comes across is himself. Shard’s insistence on occlumency means they’ve managed to undo some of the damage left by Snape’s rotted touch back in his fifth year, but he’s nowhere near proficient enough to be able to tell what’s going on; Harry can’t find anything that’s indicative of Shard’s cold presence, but that can’t be right, because Shard’s _always_ been there, even when he’s not.

“Tom?” he tries again. “Shard, this isn’t _funny_ , come on.” He knows better than that, however, because Shard isn’t one to play games, at least not like this.

There’s a very specific tapping on the door that makes Harry’s heart skip a beat when it registers. He tries to sit up but he winces and lies back down with a grunt of pain. His entire body is sore, hurts like he’s been put through the wringer. The door opens before he has a chance to say anything, and there’s Sirius, but that can’t be right either, because Sirius is _dead_.

Harry’s eyes widen at the sight, and Sirius looks _relieved_. “Oh good, you’re awake,” he breathes, as if that was ever in question. “We weren’t sure—well, it doesn’t matter now.” He comes in, not bothering to close the door behind him, his leg brace clicking with every step he takes, few as they are. He sits down at Harry’s side. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He reaches out with a trembling hand, touching Sirius’ wrist. Upon feeling warm skin, Harry’s nose starts to prickle and his eyes start to burn. “But you’re _dead_ ,” he croaks, “I watched you die.”

“You had a nightmare?” Sirius asks.

“No.” Harry swallows. It hadn’t been a nightmare, had it? It can’t have been, because that would mean Shard had given him a nightmare wherein he’d lost Sirius, and he’d never do that. Shard feels what Harry feels toward those around him, so he cares for Sirius, though perhaps not as intensely.

 _Shard_. Where is he?

“It just—I guess I did,” Harry says, because he can’t explain what yesterday had been and a nightmare seems like the easiest explanation even if it doesn’t sit right with him, even if it doesn’t explain all of it, including Shard’s current absence. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday, we kept you asleep yesterday because you needed to heal. How are you feeling? I should probably get the healer.” Sirius looks worried.

“I’m fine. Sore,” he admits. “Where’s Hermione and Ron?”

Sirius smiles knowingly. “Finally getting some sleep, they were at your side since we came back from the ministry.” He scratches the back of his head guiltily. “You weren’t supposed to wake up alone, I’m sorry.” His expression changes then into something unreadable, or at least Harry doesn’t know how to interpret it. “You died, Harry,” he whispers, and his breath hitches.

Harry breathes in slowly, trying not to fly into a panic. If he died, if that’s _true_ , then Shard…

It’s unthinkable. _No_. 

No, no, no.

“The others don’t believe me, nobody except the healer and your friends, but Harry, you died, I’m _sure_ of it.” He runs a shaking hand from forehead to chin. “Merlin, Harry, I lost you.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Harry says, and his voice breaks. He gives a crooked little smile but what he wants most is to reach into his own chest and relief himself of the terrible ache. Someone or something must have ripped a hole in his chest and taken out his heart while he slept. No wonder he feels so empty, so bereft; they may as well have, because Harry has never been _just Harry,_ he doesn’t know who he is supposed to be without Shard at his side.

“What’s wrong?” Sirius asks, because of course he sees right through Harry.

But how could Harry ever begin to explain? He doubts they would understand how he could be so attached to a part of Voldemort, because a shard of Voldemort’s soul is still a part of him, isn’t it? They must think that Harry was getting influenced by it, that he should be so relieved to be rid of it.

“Just—you know, almost dying, that’s a scary thought,” Harry lies.

Sirius nods, as if he understood. “I dreamt it was me,” he says quietly.

Harry swallows, mind flashing back to yesterday. _It could’ve been_ , his mind whispers, _it should’ve been_ , but the latter thought he immediately stomps down. It’s unfair to think that way, neither of them should have died, it should’ve been Harry. “I’m glad it wasn’t,” he says, and at least that part is the truth. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Listen, Harry, there’s something I should tell you. I’d rather you hear it from me than from the healer, but…” Sirius trails off, as if unsure how to continue that.

“You found a horcrux,” Harry says flatly, turning on his side to watch Sirius’ expression.

Sirius winces. “We’re not sure, it could be something else!” he says quickly.

“Sirius, _please_ ,” Harry says tiredly.

He sighs, as if it pains him. “Yeah, it was probably a horcrux. It’s just residue now.” His fingers brush sudden tears from Harry’s cheeks. “Why are you crying?” he says a little helplessly. “Please don’t cry, darling.”

Harry closes his eyes against the onslaught. “I’m just relieved,” he lies, and he winces internally at the fact that he went from never lying to the man at all to lying to him twice in the span of mere minutes. Sirius deserves nothing but honesty, and yet...

He pushes his face into Sirius’ thigh while Sirius cards his fingers through Harry’s wild hair. “It’s okay,” Sirius tells him, but it’s not, is it?

Harry’s heart hurts and he’s sinking in grief.

*

Hermione comes upstairs, a changing of the guards, bringing with her tea and a few sandwiches and some soup along with Mrs. Weasley’s complaint that she can’t go upstairs without permission and that Harry needs someone to take care of him. Hermione grins lightly while she relays this message to Sirius, who rolls his eyes, because this complaint isn’t new by any stretch of the imagination.

Harry only resurfaces enough to drink and eat, sitting up just long enough to consume the sandwiches and drink the tea and then crawling back under the blankets. Hermione kisses him on the cheek when Sirius leaves them to it. “You’re not okay,” she says.

Harry shakes his head, silent tears still running down his cheeks. “I’m really not,” he confesses. “I feel alone,” he adds. “Please don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she gets under the blanket and curls up around him, and he holds her close to him and closes his eyes and thinks of better days. They hold hands, fingers entwined, their breathing in sync.

“Hey,” Ron greets them, kicking the door shut behind him and setting a second tray with drink and food on the nightstand. “What’s going on?” he asks Hermione as he wipes his hands on his trousers, then sits on the bed, bouncing a little.

Hermione hums. “He’s not feeling well.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “I can see _that_.”

Harry wordlessly holds up his end of the duvet, and Ron throws his shoes off then gets in as well. Bedsharing is not necessarily new between the three of them, but it still excites Harry that they’re so close that he can have this comfort, small as it is. He doesn’t understand why he’s so touch-starved, not when he grew up with Shard. He grew up with loving embraces, cold though they are, never without touch for very long, Shard was always there for him, taking care of him.

Yet ever since they first crossed that line, Harry has been craving it, an almost physical need to be close to his friends, especially now, during these trying times. He doesn’t think the word _friend_ does what they are justice, nothing seems to explain what they are, how could it, when their bond has settled in their flesh and bones?

He wants to tell them his secret so badly, the words _I loved him_ hovering on the tip of his tongue, but they hover out of his grasp, the words stuck in his throat when he tries to form them, as if unwilling to be spoken out loud.

*

The day feels like a strange mirror of the previous one. It’s not Mrs. Weasley who comes to get them though, because she can’t get up the stairs with Sirius still being alive and holding onto the wards and whatever he’s set it to. Instead, it’s the man himself, not batting an eyelash at the way he finds the three of them.

Without being able to tell anyone of the heavy secret that’s weighing him down, his grief turns inward, threatening at times to overwhelm him while he stands at the kitchen table and forces himself to pay attention to the debrief of the raid on Malfoy Manor, which went suspiciously well.

Moody’s annoyed they took prisoners, because his stance is _take no prisoners, not even when they beg you_ , at least it’s been ever since some of their safehouses were raided and the Death Eaters killed the families staying there. They’d been rats, the whole reason they’d gone into hiding, but their intelligence had been useful and had come in time. Certainly the children hadn’t deserved the ending they got at any rate, innocents caught up in dangerous times.

Harry feels very much helpless and alone, and it doesn’t take long for realisation to set in that he _is_ alone with his loss. There are various people throughout the day who confess to be relieved that whatever ‘dark curse’ on him is gone now. Harry can’t do anything other than nod and agree, because to do otherwise would be the same as admitting that he’d known about it and had gone so far as to covet its presence.

All day long the feeling lingers that there’s something stuck in his throat that he can’t get out. It’s cutting off his air supply at the worst of times, making him choke on words halfway through a sentence as pain ripples through him and makes him weak in the knees. He can see that his friends are worried, but honestly, there’s nothing he can say to make things alright. Nothing but the truth would satisfy them, and he’s not prepared to go that far.

Unlike their muted worries, Sirius is loud about it, even when he doesn’t say anything at all he’s practically screaming; he hovers. While someone orbiting him this much would normally be something to drive him up the wall, he lets Sirius, because it’s _Sirius_ and he loves him and Shard is gone and Sirius is dead.

Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself.

*

His socks are slowly soaking, but he barely notices. Between the three of them are glowing letters spelling out a chosen name, and Harry can feel it deep inside him when Shard connects the dots and realises the truth, something that’d been shaken loose falling back into place. It almost hurts, the way it hangs thickly in the air.

“You’re me,” Shard says slowly. “He’s me, and I am him. Harry, I can feel it.”

 _So can I_ , Harry doesn’t say as he searches for the words to properly express the sheer volume of denial coursing violently through his veins, but he finds none that seem appropriate. Shard knows it regardless of the words he speaks, their two-way connection pulsing strongly between them.

Shard narrows his eyes and takes a step forward. “ _Brother_ ,” he hisses.

Harry flinches, but Shard is there, holding onto his wrist, something that generally tends to calm him but now does nothing but set off his insecurities. But Shard raises himself up to his full height, and _they’re no longer twelve, they’re sixteen, they’re Tom from the diary, they’re screaming with pain settled deeply into flesh and bone._

In the corner of the Chamber of Secrets lies Ginny, asleep in a halo of crimson, and she doesn’t so much as stir when Harry falls to his knees next to her, the water splashing everywhere. Shard casually throws the diary from one hand to the other, uncaring that loose papers are falling out, its spine blackened and turned to ash.

“I am Tom Riddle,” Shard whispers.

Harry shudders.

*

The Order is getting ready for the final move into Hogwarts. What that means is that Grimmauld Place plays host to a variety of visitors, yet none of them really have anything that brings them there, as there’s nothing they’ll actually be moving from one place to another. They’re just… _there_ , constantly in the way while Harry tries to make sense of his day. 

Most of his day consists of meetings, and while he tries to pay attention, it keeps slipping away from him. Time loses meaning while he dips in and out of moments like a dolphin, pulled under the surface by memories until he’s drowning in them, unable to breathe but so tempted to stay underwater, the one place where life still makes sense to him.

He’s still not over the fact that Sirius is alive and well, unharmed, no sign of the injuries that proved fatal to him at the ministry on Sunday. Or they should’ve proved fatal, except they didn’t, he wasn’t injured at all beyond a quick stumble down the stairs. He’d caught himself, and Harry had died, except it must’ve been Shard who paid the price.

Ron tries to get him to play chess, but Harry’s brain is malfunctioning and the last thing he wants to do is do anything that requires a functioning brain. Instead, he kneels at Sirius’ feet in the living room, the one upstairs where nobody tends to come because it escaped Mrs. Weasley’s cleaning attempts, the dirt so stubborn there’s nothing to be done about it.

Sirius reads to him.

It’s a transfiguration text, because Sirius is a bit of a nerd and it was the one subject he and Harry’s dad had been serious about back in their schooldays. Sirius is playing catch-up with the academic world, though just like the rest of the Wixen world, progression has been slow throughout the years, and he’s almost done getting through the journals.

“When things have settled, will you come with me to Greece?” Sirius asks, apropos of nothing. His near tumble into the veil in fifth year means he’s pardoned, though it’s still hard for him to go anywhere without people giving him a wide berth. It means he can walk around without getting arrested, and for that Harry’s thankful every day, the one good thing coming out of an otherwise miserable experience.

“Greece? What’s there?” Harry asks.

“Allard Roderick. He’s a transfiguration master, he moved to Patras back in 1987. I was supposed to apprentice under him but it never happened for, you know, obvious reasons.”

“Yes, obvious reasons,” Harry echoes with a nod.

“Exactly.” Sirius’ fingers tighten in his hair, gently pulling before letting go again. “I’d like to schedule a visit, when time and circumstance permits.”

Harry manages a smile. “Of course I’d love to come with you.”

Shard would have had something to say about this, he thinks, and it chafes at him until he closes his eyes and focuses on breathing in and out, Sirius’ fingers carding so carefully through his hair while he resumes reading the text out loud. He’s not alone, he reminds himself, he has Sirius. Sirius, who cares for him as much as Harry cares for him, just… differently, without the persistent heat of attraction clogging his thoughts, most likely.

But Sirius stops talking, and his fingers pause their movements. “Harry?” he asks slowly.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright? You were humming to yourself.”

Harry frowns. “Was I?”

“Yeah, you were humming London Bridge,” Sirius says slowly. He cocks his head, brow furrowed with concern. “Are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

Harry feels dizzy, and he leans against Sirius’ legs, presses his face against Sirius’ thigh. “I’m fine,” he says hollowly. He is empty and floating. He wants to laugh, or maybe that’s a sob fighting its way to the surface. “I’m okay,” he says, closing his eyes. Even as his body becomes heavy, he’s drifting upward like a helium balloon, Shard having let go of his string.

Harry doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

“Hold me, please,” Harry whispers.

Sirius makes a noise Harry’s too tired to interpret, and he puts his transfiguration journal to the side. Then, with a grunt, he slides down until he’s sitting in front of the chair, Harry in the V of his legs. “C’mere, darling,” he sighs, already pulling the boy close to him. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you, but _something_ ’s going on,” he says quietly, rubbing Harry’s back in slow circles. “I’m here.”

“I don’t—” But words refuse to come to him, and he gasps for air instead.

“I’m here whether you want to talk or not,” Sirius says firmly.

“Can’t, I can’t. _Can’t_ , Sirius.”

“Breathe with me, okay? In, one, two…”

*

One moment Harry is leaning against the cold wall inside his cupboard and the next Aunt Petunia rips open the door. “Stop being such a little _creep_ , boy, it’s midnight, for god’s sake,” she says, looking over her shoulder nervously.

Harry blinks at her owlishly, his aunt nothing more than a moving silhouette. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about, all he was doing was quietly singing London Bridge because Shard likes hearing it.

“ _Stop_ singing that infuriating song!” she snaps.

“Wasn’t singing,” Harry denies innocently. 

Aunt Petunia switches off the overhead lamp and suddenly she looks menacing and dangerous as she leans into his territory. “Listen to me, you little liar, you’re lucky Vernon’s out of the country,” she hisses angrily, swatting at him but unable to reach him without actually entering the cupboard.

 **_Apologise to her_** , Shard suggests instead, **_quickly._ **

**_Fine_** , Harry replies mentally. “I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia, I promise I won’t do it again,” Harry says obediently, but he crosses his fingers behind his back, and everyone knows that means it’s not a real promise so it doesn’t count. 

When she’s finally gone back upstairs, Shard materialises and he burrows closer to the apparition and he starts humming the song instead. “London bridge is falling down,” Shard murmurs alongside him, “falling down, falling down.”

*

Sirius gets him to breathe properly again, at least for now, and Harry relaxes in his arms as the seconds tick by. Sirius is an absolute furnace, whereas Shard was a perpetual icicle. The easiest way to tell lucid dreams from reality for Harry was by paying attention to Shard’s lack of body-heat; if he was warm, Harry was dreaming.

Sirius has no such problems. His skin is hot when he squeezes his arms around Harry, one large hand rubbing his arm. Sirius’ concern is blessedly silent right now, and Harry feels a headache coming up and he’s thirsty.

Tomorrow they’ll join the others at Hogwarts, at which point it’ll turn from a school into a war fortress. The students have left the school, and the only ones left are the warriors, the children weaponised by the Order of the Phoenix, something that nobody in said Order wishes to think too closely about. They’ve all put up token protests, but in the end nobody cared enough to actually do anything about the myriad of child soldiers running about, except perhaps Mrs. Weasley, the woman who cried wolf; all her protests were lost amid all the _other_ shouting she’s done over the years, right though she is.

Harry has seen what they’re capable of, and he can’t say he cares one way or another. He’d rather _nobody_ fight at all, but he’s not going to discriminate based on age: if they can wield a wand, they can learn how to defend themselves. Why would a twenty year old be more deserving of knowing self defense than a twelve year old? Should they just leave the twelve year old to the wolves?

“Better now?” Sirius whispers into his ear.

A thrill of excitement runs down his spine at being so close to Sirius. “Yeah, thanks,” he says honestly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—I’m just feeling a little off, that’s all.”

“Considering you died, that’s not surprising at all,” Sirius says sharply. “It’s okay not to feel okay, you know. We don’t know what dying does to a person.” A fleeting smile, as if he’s unable to _not_ see the humour in that statement, because it’s Sirius. “Other than the obvious.”

But that’s not the problem, and Harry can’t exactly tell him that without Sirius exploding about betrayal and trust, he’s sure of it. Sirius is volatile and unstable like that, he won’t react well to being told about Shard, and he’ll have drawn his conclusions long before Harry has a chance to finish explaining. It’s something Sirius is working on, one of the many things he’s been working on, but that doesn’t mean it’s been smooth sailing.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Harry blurts out.

“As if I would leave you this soon, when I just got you back,” Sirius says. He barks a laugh, though it sounds uneasy. “Can you imagine?” He shakes his head, curls flying everywhere. “There’s no world in which I wouldn’t fight for you until my very last breath.” He clears his throat. “Though sometimes, I suppose, we have no choice,” he adds softly, patting his leg brace twice. “That was close.”

“It was too close,” Harry agrees.

*

It’s only when he crawls into bed that night that Harry takes stock of himself and realises that something is physically wrong with him, something that’s been bothering him all day but something he wasn’t able to place; his head feels strange, like he used to wear a headband and it’s gone now.

Harry tries to relax fully under the sheets but when he closes his eyes he feels as if he’s falling through the mattress. He needs to sleep, because tomorrow is a big day, but how can he sleep without Shard firmly at his side, commenting on anything and everything from their day until Harry’s eyes close, and then continuing in their shared dreams.

Shard, whose personality changed more and more the older they got, until he became someone unrecognisable to Harry. Shard, whose efforts to bridge that ever growing gap between them have largely gone unnoticed by Harry until it’s too late to love him even more for it. 

Shard, whose entire presence hurts, yet his absence is even worse. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is noooot coming along well. I'm so stuck on the third chapter it's unreal, so I've been writing other things instead. (Like the dementor fic that I've been telling everyone and their mum about 😝 (including my stepmum...) wait what do you mean I'm creating expectations? WELP TOO LATE NOW! 😩) On with SOS! Btw, you should totally check out the song **Tous les cris les SOS** by Daniel Balavoine, it's where the title came from. It's gorgeous.

He doesn’t recall falling asleep nor is he able to remember if there were any dreams. One moment he was staring at ceiling tiles and after a blink he’s suddenly drooling on his pillow. With a confused noise he gets up, and his eyes fall on the adult man sitting next to him, resting lazily against the headboard.

“Morning,” Shard says casually.

“Tom?” And as sleep falls away, Harry finds that himself growing angry. Shard abandoned him, and he has the nerve to just greet him like nothing happened? “Don’t do that again,” he orders. “Don’t you _ever_ leave me again!” he snarls.

“Quiet, Harry, I’m right here.” Because of course what Shard’s concerned with is decorum.

“You weren’t! You were _gone_!” Harry grabs his pillow from behind him and throws it, but it goes straight through the apparition.

Shard looks confused rather than insulted. “I was not.”

“You were,” Harry chokes out. “You _left_ me.”

Shard kneels in front of him, hands planted firmly on Harry’s tear-streaked cheeks. “Show me,” he commands. “Just think about it and let me see.”

Harry does, closes his eyes and tries to relax in his not-hold. As always, Shard’s touch hurts, claws raking through his mind. The band is back, pulled tight around his head, but Harry doesn’t mind it because he missed Shard and a headache is a small price to pay, all things considered. 

He thinks about the loneliness he experienced yesterday, the despair he felt, how lost he was without Shard wedged under his skin, the realisation that he can’t live like that, he shows Shard _all_ of it.

“Interesting,” Shard says mildly.

Harry laughs around a relieved sob.

His laughter doesn’t last long, because when Shard finally lets him go, he does so with a pitying look, but that—no. Things are back to normal now, they were just really weird dreams, and they don’t matter now, they’re in the past, Shard’s back with him again, things are fine. Things are as they should be and everything’s _fine_.

But Shard’s expression stays the same, and Harry hates it, because he knows.

“No, stop it,” Harry says weakly. “God, no, stop, please.”

“I’m sorry,” Shard says and his sudden disappearance is jarring.

Harry hates the broken connection between them, hates Snape for what he made them do to avoid discovery, for ruining them so much it no longer comes easy between them, their wings clipped, nothing but static at times. Harry hates everything and anything right that moment for how much he loves Shard despite himself, caught between two housefires.

But perhaps it’s a good thing Shard has retreated, because Harry needs to _think_ and that’s hard to do with him around. The house around him is still and quiet, early morning, the break of dawn. Sitting in the living room downstairs are two Order members on guard, prepared to raise the alarm if necessary. That rarely happens, though the last time was intercepting the ongoing raid of the recently taken ministry building.

He rises from the bed and leaves his bedroom on the top floor. It used to be a storage room, but they cleared everything out and put a bed, a wardrobe and a desk in there, the beginnings of a bedroom to call his own. The door across his own is closed, and for a moment, Harry’s caught in a fantasy where Sirius is merely asleep on the other side of it. He can still pretend there’s nothing wrong, that if he opens the door, Sirius will be sprawled out over his sheets because the covers are too restrictive.

Harry opens the door a smidge, then kicks it open with his toes, and the bed is empty and obviously unslept in. He closes his eyes against the evidence, unwilling to face the truth, because it’s easier to believe Sirius wasn’t able to sleep and got up early, except his leg braces lie in front of the wardrobe, and they must’ve—they must’ve taken them off when— 

“ _SHUT UP!_ ” Harry yells and he clutches his head, but his inner voice refuses to stop, and he sinks to his knees amid flashes of the ministry, Sirius’ laughter in his ears and Hermione’s loud scream and falling down the stairs. He scratches at his wrist in an effort to make the visions stop, but pain doesn’t overrule and neither does scratched open skin, and Shard is there suddenly, grabbing his hands and holding them behind his back, pressing him into the carpet of Sirius’ bedroom. 

“Hush, boy, calm down,” Shard says ever so calmly, completely unaffected. “We’re going to be okay.”

“We? You’re not even—why aren’t you—” 

“Raging with grief? Falling apart?” Shard whispers in his ear. “Because one of us has to function, and clearly that’s not going to be you.” He breathes in deeply even though he doesn’t need air, an automatism. “But you carry the burden so well.”

“You’re being creepy, Tom,” Harry tells him firmly. His current position is uncomfortable and his arms ache from where they’re held forcefully behind his back, Shard leaning down on him with all the body weight of a grown man such as he is right now.

“If I let you go, will you cease hurting yourself?”

“What do you mean? Tom, damnit, you’re the one hurting me.”

Shard lets up, just a little. “You were scratching at your wrists,” he says with an audible frown. “I won’t tolerate such behaviour from you, you’re above self-harm.”

“I wasn’t _harming_ myself,” Harry says. “I just—it was just—my wrists, they hurt.”

“They didn’t hurt, _you little liar_ ,” Shard says, mimicking Aunt Petunia’s voice for just a moment. “Yes or no? Will you stop?”

“Yes,” Harry says.

He resigns himself to the fact that Shard won’t believe him that he hadn’t meant to scratch his wrist bloody, it just _happened_. Shard believes what he wants to believe, it’s always been that way, one of the few things that haven’t changed in the past couple years he’s shared with Tom _I-Am-Right-And-You-Are-Wrong_ Riddle. When he was just Shard, he’d been easier to get along with, but all things must come to an end, mustn’t they? Including but not limited to their easy camaraderie, apparently. 

Tom is prickly and irate, and Harry’s still learning how to navigate that.

Getting up with a groan and rolling his shoulders to get rid of the lingering ache, he takes stock of the room. It’s still exactly the way it’d been before they left for the ministry. Harry knows this because he was on Sirius’ balcony when the call for reinforcements came through. Harry was supposed to just sit tight and stay behind, but there was no way he was going to do that when the Order—when _Sirius_ —was out there, getting outnumbered 2 to 1.

Maybe, he reflects, if he hadn’t been there, things wouldn’t have gone so _wrong_.

**_Stop that train of thought immediately, Harry James Potter,_ ** Shard’s disembodied voice says with a hint of irritation. **_Get ready for a productive day, it won’t do to hang around in bed when you should be moving to Hogwarts today._ **

Harry does as told, getting ready for the day though what he really wants is to curl up and cry, maybe think about what’s going on without Shard’s hovering. After all, he has no idea how or why he hasn’t been dreaming, or if the day without Shard had been nothing more than a dream. But when he looks at the empty calendar hanging in the hallway downstairs, yesterday was either real or he slept the day away, the latter which he rather doubts. He’s sure someone would’ve told him if he slept through an entire day, someone would’ve come to wake him up, it’s just not possible to laze about in these dangerous times.

Ron and Hermione are already up when he joins them in the living room, a board of Muggle chess on the table between them, though neither seems inclined to actually play if the way Hermione’s moving the pawns and the knights shows him anything, her chin resting on a clenched fist. Ron yawns then knocks over a tower with his pinky, which makes Hermione giggle softly for some unknown reason; whatever they’re playing, it’s _definitely_ not chess.

“Oh, hey,” Ron greets him, stretching his arms through another yawn. “Mum is making us breakfast, if you’re hungry.” He rubs his stomach. “Pancakes, but she shooed us out when we tried to, y’know, help.”

Harry can just envision the type of _help_ Ron is referring to and will be the first to admit that he’d also have kicked the boy out of his kitchen, had it been him.

Hermione taps one of her knights on the table to a rhythm Harry can only guess at, must be some song or other. “You should eat, Harry,” she says without looking up from the chess piece, “you barely had anything for dinner.”

“Er, yeah,” Harry says, surprised at the call-out, “I wasn’t very hungry.”

Hermione nods. “I understand,” she says, a little quietly.

Harry looks at Ron for guidance here, but Ron shakes his head and shrugs minutely. “Is there—are you okay, Hermione?” Tentatively he reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder, and she sags under his touch as if his hand is too heavy to bear.

“Just wondering,” she says with a frown. Then she sighs and puts the chess piece back onto the board, though she doesn’t seem to care where she puts it. “We would’ve graduated right about now,” she says, still deep in thought. “My parents would’ve—” She stops abruptly, groans and rubs her cheeks as if massaging them. “Let’s see if the pancakes are ready,” she says, and she smiles lightly.

Ron looks perplexed at the mood-shift, because they can both see that she’s not doing so great. Clearly losing Sirius must have reminded her of her parents, at least that’s what it looks like to Harry, because that’s what everyone assumed Sirius was to Harry. Even Ron and Hermione don’t know any better, neither of them ever letting on that lines had been crossed.

*

Harry is fifteen, almost sixteen, and the sun is shining brightly though not as hot as it was a few days ago. The Grimmauld Place’s backyard is small, though larger than the Muggle counterparts, but they’ve been working hard at it, getting rid of the ugly plain tiles and planting grass instead, surrounding the patch by new bricks. There’s a small terrace, large enough for two plastic chairs and an old round table crammed together.

Sirius’ crutches are propped up against the wall next to the backdoor, far away enough that he’ll have to ask Harry for help should he want them for something. With his legs crossed at the ankles he watches Harry mess around with soil and plants rather than reading the journal he has ready in his lap, a cigarette hanging from his fingers. “You know you don’t have to do this, Harry,” he says.

Harry wipes at his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “It’ll be worth it,” he says earnestly, meaning it with every fibre of his being. “I’ll make it look good for you.”

Sirius shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else for most of the afternoon, both enjoying the mild weather. It’s just the two of them, uninterrupted for once, mostly because Tonks was kind enough to get rid of everyone by weaving a sob story about them that included bonding time, Sirius being awake and mobile again, and the shock of almost losing him. Harry had to stifle giggles when he heard it and managed to quietly escape the nonsense.

Shard says something, his tone curious, but none of the words make any sense due to their broken connection, as if he’s speaking a different language entirely. When Harry looks up, he’s flickering, and he mouths something but Harry can’t lip-read. Shard looks frustrated before giving up and flickering out of existence, staying inside until they see each other again in Harry’s dream.

With the last plant in the soil, Harry sits back and inspects his handiwork. It looks great, if he says so himself, the grass lined by bricks on one side and a variety of plants on the other side. He quickly cleans up the tools he used, putting them in a bucket, then joins Sirius on the terrace. Kreacher must’ve been by at some point, because Sirius has coffee. 

Harry dumps the bucket on the other chair, on top of all the empty containers, then sits down in Sirius’ lap, the man sitting up with a surprised grunt. He sniffs at the mug Sirius is holding. “Can I have a sip?” Sirius drinks it black, no milk, no sugar. Harry’s tried it before and he absolutely hates it, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try it again and again.

Sirius gives him a long look. “Alright.”

Harry takes a sip, then coughs and hands the mug back.

“I don’t know what you expected,” Sirius says, amused. “Did you think it was going to taste differently this time? You did, didn’t you?”

“No,” Harry says with a pout. “ _Yes_.” He sighs. “Kreacher!”

The house-elf appears with a pop, and Harry sends him off with a request for a latte, which has Sirius snickering after which he mutters something about _children’s coffee_. Harry knows plenty of adults who like milk in their tea, so all he does is stick out his tongue before getting more comfortable in Sirius’ lap. 

It’s something new between them, which started moments after Sirius was presented with a wheelchair those initial days after waking up from a healing coma. “Come sit, let’s go for a ride,” he’d said with one of those dazzling smiles, and so Harry had climbed into his lap and then they spent an hour messing about on the first floor. Harry had a suspicion that it was mostly to distract from the fact that Sirius needed a wheelchair at all, and they were both trying very hard not to hate it.

Harry turns in Sirius’ lap, his legs between them, and he leans back with a sigh. Sirius’ arms come up around his waist, hands on his left thigh. “Enjoy yourself?” Sirius asks quietly.

“Right now?” Harry asks, a little stupidly truth be told.

Sirius smirks but says nothing.

“I mean. Yes, it was fun.” He yawns and stretches and then shamelessly curls up into Sirius’ embrace. “I don’t mind gardening,” he says, feeling tired and going boneless fast even though his heart is racing in his chest at the sheer proximity.

“Rather you than me.”

“Hmm,” Harry agrees lazily and he closes his eyes, hiding his face in Sirius’ neck. 

The man chuckles and squeezes his thigh, then lets go and takes Harry’s dirty hand in his own. “Harry,” he murmurs, “sweetheart.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he whispers softly.

“Mhm.” Harry noses blindly at Sirius’ throat, feels it when the man swallows. His skin feels hot, stubble prickling his nose and his cheek. “Sirius?” He opens his eyes just a crack and finds Sirius looking down at him.

“Yes?”

Harry shifts and Sirius lets go of his hand, so he brings it up to rest on the man’s chest instead, and he can feel the steady heartbeat under his palm. “Will you kiss me?” he hears himself ask, and he’ll forever wonder where he got the nerve from, or why he even asked in the first place, but it happened and his heart skips a beat at the contemplative look on Sirius’ face.

“Like this?” he finally asks, and he kisses Harry on his forehead.

“Sirius, _no_.”

“You’re so demanding,” Sirius says with a wide smile, resting his chin on a fist. “Like this, then?” he asks, and he leans in to pepper Harry’s cheek with kisses, the boy squirming under the attention with a giggle and then a shout for mercy. “Okay, okay,” he chuckles, giving him a final kiss before pulling away.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Harry says with a hint of a pout. “I meant _a kiss_.”

“But I gave you a kiss,” he says as he shifts, taking his pack of cigarettes and throwing it onto the table, the lighter sliding out of the foil. “What about this?” he asks next, and then he drops a kiss on Harry’s nose, and it would be sweet if that’s what Harry actually wanted. “Like that?”

“No.” Harry tilts his face up, and they lock eyes, their mouths just centimetres apart. Sirius almost seems to be looking through him, his expression so serious that Harry hardly recognises it on his face.

“Then I don’t know what you mean,” Sirius says quietly, his smile razor sharp around the edges.

“Sirius,” Harry begs, “kiss me, please.”

Sirius’ breath hitches and he licks his bottom lip. “Like this?” he finally whispers and he hesitates for a heartbeat or two, but then brushes their lips together for too short a moment. The kiss is so soft that it makes Harry’s chest ache with something strong and unexpected like longing. Harry’s eyes flutter shut and he relaxes minutely as their mouths move together slowly. Yet all too soon, Sirius pulls back, rests his forehead against Harry’s, his eyes still closed. “Fuck, I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Harry tries not to let that get to him, but it’s a close thing. He doesn’t want to be a mistake, dares to believe that he deserves more than that. “Why?” he asks, because he’s a masochist.

Sirius chuckles darkly. “Because now I want to kiss you again,” he murmurs. He leans away then, back against the backrest of the plastic chair. He stretches his arms above him with a curse, then settles them on the armrests, fingertips pushing into Harry’s waist. “But you’re too young, you’re James’ boy and—and we _can’t_ , Harry.”

Harry’s heart beats in his throat. “Do it anyway,” he croaks. 

But even as he says it, he can see that Sirius won’t do it, and so with little finesse he takes the plunge and pushes their lips together. Sirius’ reaction is near instant, and Harry sighs against soft lips when the man takes control of the kiss, steering it into a direction that sends Harry’s pulse racing and his toes curling. Sirius rubs his leg from knee to thigh, up and down, and Harry is aching with want, his trousers pulled tight, and it’s so easy to lose himself. He moans quietly, and Sirius deepens the kiss, and his next moan is a lot louder, thing getting heated quickly.

But Sirius chooses that moment to pull back, and Harry follows blindly, but with a last peck Sirius pushes him away. “Sweetheart,” he says quietly, one hand resting in the small of Harry’s back, the other on his knee. “You’re incredible.” He groans. “And you’re fifteen.” He laughs a tad hysterically, a bit breathlessly. “ _Shit_ , Sirius, well done.”

And Harry gets it, he does, because he knows everyone would skin Sirius alive if they knew, they'd be separated faster than Harry could tell him _I love you_. He doesn’t agree with it, but he knows what’s waiting for Sirius on the other end, should it come out. “But when I’m legal,” Harry begins hesitantly. “If you still—that is, if you still wanted to.”

“You come and kiss me like that again when you’re eighteen,” Sirius whispers, “I’ll be here, waiting for you.”

Harry bites his lip, wants to yell something about seventeen being legal already, that waiting an extra year on top of it is going to be absolute torture. But he swallows all of his protests at the last moment. “You promise?” he asks instead.

“I promise.” Sirius’ eyes crinkle at the corners with the width of his smile. “I’ve nowhere else I’d rather be.”

*

Everything that is important has already been moved to Hogwarts. Hermione finds him standing on Sirius’ balcony, looking down at the yard he’d worked so hard on. She sits down on the wooden bench and fiddles with her necklace, her mother’s that she stole before she sent them away without memories of ever having a daughter, a keepsake. Harry joins her on the bench and he takes her hand in his, and together they stare at the clouds.

*

Ron comes to get them some indiscernible time later, pausing in the doorway to watch them watch the sky. There’s a grin on his face when Harry glances up at him, one that speaks of concern rather than humour. “It’s time,” he says quietly.

Hermione nods and Harry gets up as she puts her necklace back under her blouse, fixing her neckline. “Alright, ready,” she says with a last roll of her shoulders, her hand warm in Harry’s, her other outstretched toward Ron.

Ron takes it with an odd little smile twisting his lips.

*

The sight of Hogwarts will never get old, not even after six years of school and some odd visits sprinkled throughout their seventh year. They Apparate to the gates, opened only long enough to usher them through. They fall closed with a loud clang that has Harry wincing and Ron rubbing his ears.

Neville comes to meet them on their way to the castle. “Glad to have you here,” he says with a nod. “It’ll be good for people to see your faces.”

“How’s everyone?” Hermione asks.

“Low on morale,” Neville says, “we’ve been holed up here since February. Getting sick of the scenery, not gonna lie.”

Harry can’t imagine what that has been like. Truthfully they _chose_ to be holed up here, and without the joint effort of those staying behind and the Order, the castle would’ve been taken months ago. February is when the school officially evacuated, and Harry hasn’t been here since December.

“Word is they’re planning an attack soon,” Neville says.

“Heard that,” Harry agrees.

“Sooner rather than later,” Ron says.

“End of the week, maybe next week, we think,” Neville asks. “They’ve been getting restless, we’ve noticed. We’ve been keeping watch but without getting too close it’s hard to see what they’re up to. They’ve set up camp near the borders but I’ll bet half if not all of them wish they were still in their own homes rather than in tents.”

“Yes, we heard,” Hermione says without much inflection in her voice.

“Sorry,” Neville says sheepishly. “I forgot you’re at all the meetings too.”

*

The Great Hall is the source of all operations nowadays. Where the teacher’s table used to be is now a smaller table with a copy of the map and its pawns. It’s warded off and guarded by two of the students with serious expressions on their faces. The rest of the hall is filled by a bunch of smaller tables with multiple chairs around them, because there are no places for houses in current times, and besides, all but four Slytherins, all incidentally Muggleborns, have remained. Everyone sits with whomever they want.

Harry follows Neville’s lead, ignoring the two little guards near the entrance to the war section of the hall, climbing the dias and walking around the table. Glass balls filled with contained little flames hover in place over the table, causing the pawns to cast shadows everywhere. It makes the map just a little harder to read.

Harry sits on one of the chairs, face drawn tight as they’re slowly being joined by others in the inner circle of the Order of the Phoenix. Coming here feels like entering a battlefield, like they’re truly at war. It doesn’t feel as real at Grimmauld Place, far removed from everything except when there’s one of the many meetings being held. Grimmauld Place sits empty now, but Harry longs to be there rather than sit here at the war table waiting for the meeting to start.

Next to him, Ron drums his fingers on his armrest. “Reckon it’ll take long?” he whispers.

Harry gives a single shake of his head, arm propped up on the armrest and leaning with his chin against his fist. “Word will get out that we’re here, they’ll be chomping at the bit,” he says bitterly. “Like you said, sooner rather than later. It’s hot here.”

“It’s the lamps,” Hermione says, already in the process of taking off her cloak before she sits down on Harry’s other side. “Or whatever they are.”

“We’ve taken to calling them fire in a bottle. Ginny’s amazing at making them,” Neville says. “They explode, it’s really cool.”

“Have they gone _mad_?” Shard asks, materialising behind Hermione.

Harry blinks then tenses when he takes a second look at the glass balls. “You thought it was a good idea to put _bombs_ in here? Have you lost your mind?”

Neville colours. “They’re not—it’s not _these_ ,” he stammers. “The others are kept in a secure place, you can relax. These are harmless, they just look pretty.”

“You’d better not be describing me,” Ginny says from behind them. “I heard pretty and harmless, so it could go either way.”

Ron snorts. “Yeah, harmless.”

“Get lost, Gin,” Charlie Weasley says, “we’ve got a meeting.”

Ron’s expression tightens but Ginny just rolls her eyes as if this is something she was expecting. “I just came to say hi.” With a small wave she bounces away again, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. 

Harry knows differently, and he doesn’t fully understand why she’s not allowed to sit in. By all rights she _should_ be here with them, but apparently she was overruled by her parents. Everyone agrees that Dumbledore’s last letter to the Order overruled Molly and Arthur when it came to Ron, but Ginny they can still order around, and they do so without a care, nevermind that Ginny co-leads the students with Neville.

Harry tries to understand where they’re coming from, but he’s seventeen, almost eighteen, and he can’t imagine what it’s like to have children, least of all children that are old enough to make their own decisions. Plus, they’re at war. Surely that’s enough of a reason? Now they have to waste time filling her in on all the little details later when they could use that time to practice and train instead.

“Maybe one day you’ll understand,” Shard says, all faux-wisely. He climbs onto the table and walks around, his feet going straight through the pawns and leaving them undisturbed. The bottled fire flickers when he swings his hand through one of the glass balls, which elicits a delighted hum and more flickering.

Harry fights not to roll his eyes. “ _Shard, stop that,_ ” he hisses.

“It’s Tom, _Harry_. Have a care.”

“ _Tom, stop messing about, the meeting’s about to start._ ”

“Sometimes I wonder what you’re saying, but then I remember what you’re like, and I’ve decided I really don’t want to know,” Ron says.

Harry smiles. “Just complaining about these chairs, that’s all.”

*

After the meeting, Harry, Ron and Hermione follow two younger students to where they’ll be staying. Technically they could sleep in the dorms, but with how out of the way those are, they’ve instead placed everyone in strategic spots around the first and the second floor. There are enough rooms that Harry gets one of his own on the second floor near the grand staircase. Everyone suspects Hogwarts may be supplying them with more rooms that there usually are, and they’re more than grateful for it.

Harry gets into bed with a happy sigh, his back protesting the long day. He looks at the nightstand. He hopes for dreams tonight, misses Shard being warm as sunlight during their shared dreams rather than cold as ice when he’s awake.

But then a shiver runs down his spine and suddenly it hits him again that _Sirius is dead_ , and he curls in on himself.

*

Once more he wakes without a single dream. It takes him a second to place where he is, but then he remembers that he’s at Hogwarts and that at any moment they’ll be expecting an attack, which is why he’s still in his clothes. He blinks at the wardrobe next to the bed as he sits up and tries to remember what else is going on. He feels lightheaded and dizzy but ascribes that to the sleep still clinging to his mind.

Harry is always painfully slow to wake up when he feels safe, and Shard was—

Oh god, _Shard_.

*

He finds himself humming under the shower, the sound of falling water inviting him to sing along. Half expecting Shard to pop up with a smile on his face because of his choice of song, he mumbles the words to London Bridge is Falling Down, but after a while it becomes apparent that nobody is listening.

It’s just Harry and the water.

*

There’s a lot going on at Hogwarts, people jittery with anticipation, a general restlessness that seems to seep from the very walls, it’s _everywhere_. Harry joins Remus, Mr. Weasley and his godfather on the steps outside, where they’re watching the students practice their spells. Last Harry heard Neville had the younger ones practice their defensive spells only, but Ginny’s drilling them thoroughly on offensive spells right now.

Remus looks impressed.

Mr. Weasley looks resigned. “She’s not a little girl anymore, is she?” he laments.

“She’ll always be _your_ little girl,” Remus says.

“Fair enough.”

“Fenna! Watch your feet, c’mon, don’t just _stand_ there!” Ginny barks, walking around between the students and correcting them here and there. She’s being helped by two others that Harry doesn’t recognise, though those students are a lot quieter about their corrections, leaving the yelling to their little commander.

Harry grins. It reminds him of better days. DA meetings, mostly, when the outcome had only been OWLs rather than life or death, not like it’s now. His grin melts away as other thoughts assault him. “Wanna bet Voldemort has his spies sitting around, watching?” he asks darkly.

“Probably,” Sirius allows, arms folded in front of his chest. “It can’t be helped, there’s no space inside for them to practice.”

“They’re better acquainted with the terrain than many of the Order members,” Remus comments casually, sitting down on the steps, putting on a pair of sunglasses against the sun. “I know it’s controversial to many, but they might be what tips the scale in our favour.”

“They will be,” Harry agrees.

“Merlin, they’re almost _militant_ ,” Mr. Weasley mumbles, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

“That’s on purpose,” Harry tells him, surprised that they hadn’t figured that part out yet.

During the summer of last year they spent a long weekend watching military films in a shady Muggle hotel, just to make notes. Everyone thought they were staying with Hermione’s parents, but that was around the same time she sent them away with a distinct lack of memories, and Hermione was staying at a hotel at the time. The only thing they’d known at the time was that war was about to break out, though they hadn’t known what shape that was going to take yet. They’d wanted to be prepared, just in case.

The films ended up being too extreme for them, though they definitely took _some_ ideas from them, including those about getting in shape. It’d been proven in multiple studies that physical fitness had a positive influence on dueling as well, which sounded quite logical when you thought about it, but when it came to the Wixen world, it was anything but; they needed to have it spelled out for them, after all.

Harry’s ashamed to say he’s not quite as fit as most of the Hogwarts students are nowadays, he highly doubts he’ll be able to keep up with them, but he has power going for him, and that’s a game changer as well. It’s the same with Hermione. Ron is the less powerful of the three of them, but he’s always been in better physical shape than Harry, so it all evens out.

That won’t mean they’ll be fine.

They’re up against grown men and women, who’ve had a lifetime of practice under their belts. It’s hardly going to be easy, and Harry tries not to let it affect him. In fifth year, at the ministry, it was pure luck on their side, no doubt about it. Harry hopes that these days they have a bit of skill going for them as well, but they won’t know that until it’s too late.

Just then, Neville jogs past, a thong of students following him, some more fit than others. All of them are sweaty messes, however, and Neville brightly says, “C’mon, join us!” 

Harry flips him off. “I’ll pass, thanks,” he says.

Neville laughs.

But Sirius’ hand is warm on his shoulder, and he can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else but right here and now.

*

His head is empty and light, and his mind is silent, so he hums, but he makes sure he’s quiet about it, the way he used to do it after Aunt Petunia threatened to put him outside if he didn’t shut up within the next three seconds. Shard had snarled and snapped at her, but she hadn’t heard or seen him, thus hadn’t felt the sense of danger.

*

His friends confront him on the way back inside, Hermione and Ron suddenly flanking him and pulling him into one of the abandoned classrooms that haven’t been turned into a makeshift bedroom. Hermione sits down on one of the dusty tables while Ron leans with his hip against one of the cupboards. It used to be an art classroom by the looks of it, a forgotten easel in the back of the room and a bucket full of brushes in one corner.

“We need to talk, Harry,” Hermione begins. 

There are very few topics that Harry can think of that would make her look like that, and he’s loath to find out which one it is. Still, he stays quiet.

“The horcrux, it’s gone, yes?” she says carefully. “That’s a good thing.” She looks unsure of this, however, biting her lip. “Isn’t it?” she probes.

“No,” Harry says, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Make us understand,” she begs. “Please, Harry. We know something’s going on.”

Harry feels a dizzy-spell and sits down on the chair in front of her. Can he trust them with the truth? How else is he going to survive today, without Shard there to guide him? Without Tom Riddle at his side, who is he truly? What’s left of him on his own?

“You can tell us,” Ron says quietly, coming over and taking a seat on the desk behind them. “We won’t—we won’t tell anyone, you know that by now.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Harry says, which is basically telling them that yes, there is something he’s not telling them.

“We won’t judge either, I promise,” Hermione is quick to reassure him. “You know this too.”

Harry bites his lip, having decided upon a course of action though he doesn’t know how to start. “I grew up with… I’ve always had… there’s…”

“Calm down, mate,” Ron says. “One word at a time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and he gulps, throat dry as a desert. “I’ve known him since before I can remember. The Dursleys were never able to see him or touch him, but I was. He was there when I had nobody else, he…” He takes a deep breath. “God, how do I explain this? He was—he was _everything_ to me,” Harry finally bursts out, and with that he comes undone. “He was everything and then we grew apart and now he’s _gone_ and I don’t know how to be on my own. How do people deal with the silence all day? I miss him so much, you don’t know _how_ much. I would give anything to have him back, anything at all.”

There’s a shocked silence.

“You grew up with—with a piece of his soul?” Ron asks, looking green.

Harry folds his arms in front of his chest, feeling defensive. “Well he’s no longer with me, so it doesn’t matter, does it?” he says snaps.

“It’ll be—” Hermione begins, but no.

“No, it won’t!” Harry finds himself shouting, breathing hard. “It won’t be okay! Sirius is alive, but Shard’s gone and how is that supposed to be better!”

“Sirius—”

“ _SIRIUS DIED AT THE MINISTRY!_ ” Harry yells. “How is that supposed to be—how am I supposed to choose between them? Tell me, then, Hermione, how am I supposed to make that choice?”

“It’s not a choice,” Hermione says sharply.

“‘Moine,” Ron whispers.

Hermione makes a cutting gesture. “No, listen to me. You _died_ , Harry. The horcrux—” 

“Shard. Tom. His name is Tom.”

“I’m sorry, _Tom_ , then. Tom must have died in your place.”

“So he died for me. How’s that any better?” Harry’s breath gets stuck in his throat. “I never asked him to, I never wanted... _this_. People keep dying for me, and it’s not fair.” He rolls his eyes and looks at the ceiling. “I never asked for this.”

“We never do, Harry,” Ron says quietly. 

His chest constricts with the need to lash out, to hurt as he is hurting, but Ron’s grip is strong on Harry’s shoulder. He pulls the other boy closer, and suddenly Harry’s caught between them two of them, Ron and Hermione, and the feeling of belonging cuts through the layer of hurt, enough so that he can breathe again.

“I just want them both,” Harry whispers brokenly, “or is that greedy?”

“Tell us about T-Tom,” Hermione says, with only the hint of a stammer. She takes a deep breath, a small frown adorning her face. “You grew up with him? Was he always just there?”

Harry gives her a crooked little smile, thankful that she’s not writing him off immediately, that she’s prepared to _listen_. He wonders if they’ll remember this tomorrow, when (if) Shard returns to him, because that’s the pattern, right? Sirius gone, Shard gone, Sirius gone, Shard gone… if he can have them one at a time, would that be so bad? As opposed to them being gone entirely. But no, Harry’s selfish and he wants them _both_. 

“He was always there,” Harry confirms. “Since before I can remember, at first only in my head but then as we grew older he came out sometimes and we’d play games.” He fiddles with the hems of his sleeves. Most people are foregoing robes with the threat of battle near, and Harry’s one of those. “I didn’t really have friends, you know.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” Ron deadpans.

“Shush, you,” Hermione grins.

“I used to have an imaginary friend,” Ron says. “His name was Suttle. Mum says it’s because I probably craved something to call my own, ‘cause I’d constantly had to share with all my brothers and sister. Only had him for a couple years before he stopped appearing, though.”

“I had books,” Hermione says.

“Of course you did.” Ron’s smile is fond.

“No, I mean, when I was lonely, that’s all I had. I lived and breathed other people’s stories so I didn’t have to think about the fact that I was alone.” She looks ashamed as she says it, self-conscious about it, as if she’s afraid they’re going to laugh at the fact that she’d truly had nobody before they became friends. She gives a trepid smile. “But I’ve you now.”

“You do,” Harry says firmly.

The noise Ron makes sounds suspiciously like a sniff.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fiiiighting me so much! I wanted to extend it but it kept fighting me, so I decided to give in and leave it the way it is. It's a lot shorter than I wanted (it's half of chapter 1 lol I really didn't plan that out well) but I'm okay with the way it turned out.

Telling Ron and Hermione about Shard doesn’t feel like a weight lifted off his shoulders, if anything, it made it worse.

They don’t seem to understand just how important Shard is to him, even though they definitely try. Ron seems most uncomfortable at the notion of a piece of Voldemort’s soul growing up alongside Harry, while Hermione has trouble picturing having someone with you, always. They try, and yet Harry wishes to never speak of it again. He’s told them, it’s done now, no need to mince words.

But even if he’d wanted to, he doesn’t get a choice.

The alarms sound all throughout the castle, loud shrieking sirens, and when they enter the entrance hall, people are rushing outside, wands ready. That the Death Eaters would attack them soon, and in broad daylight, nobody had expected. There had been no warning that Harry’s aware of, no word from their spies. 

They follow the crowd outside, and there, near the gates, is Terry Boot staring blankly ahead as he opens the gate, and they’re too late to stop him. Boot was one of the runners, those patrolling the borders, and they must’ve taken him captive and put him under the Imperius. Harry curses as he watches, and he’s hardly the only one, wand in hand, assuming the battle stance he learned from the lessons with Moody, his friends at his sides and his back.

But where those from Hogwarts are in some sort of formation that Harry hasn’t had a chance to check out yet, the Order is chaotic and more of a hindrance than of help to them. They may be more experienced dueling-wise, but they don’t know the terrain as well, and they sure as hell don’t work well together.

Harry sends stunner after stunner their way, barely getting winded, and he spots Hogwarts students taking on Death Eaters three to one, working together to take down their opponent, and it works. Spells are flying everywhere, and Harry has to duck friendly fire, which annoys him enough that it distracts him and he curses when a cutting curse hits him in the cheek.

The Death Eaters have them on the defence rather than the offence, and before long they have to fall back, overwhelmed by the chaotic nature of battle. The secondary dome of wards hold, erected just days prior, and they retreat behind them, wards defined by large torches in the ground so everyone knows not to step past that line. The Death Eaters largely leave them to it, some staying behind to test the wards by poking them or even physically assaulting them, though that won’t do much.

Harry stands alone, and for a second he thinks, _behind you the world burns to ashes_ , and there is no Shard to tell him otherwise. A shiver runs down his spine, but when he turns, there’s just Hogwarts’ forces and the Order trying to take stock of the messy aftermath.

*

That evening, Harry seeks solace atop the castle. It’s a balmy summer evening, and that seems unfair considering the circumstances. It should be raining buckets, deafening thunder and lightning lighting up the sky like fireworks. Snow, hail, it should be storming, but no, it’s dry and mild out, perfect camping weather.

Bellatrix slams her hands down on the barriers, and then she laughs. “You’re under siege!”

So they are.

Harry steps back from the battlements and stares up at the sky before squeezing his eyes closed, quietly humming to himself to fill the silence left behind by Shard. “ _Iron bars will bend and break_ ,” he mouths listlessly at the sky, scratching at his wrist until he bleeds, “ _bend and break, bend and break._ ”

*

  
He stumbles across Sirius in the hallway on his way down, the man evidently being as unable to sleep as Harry, no matter how exhausted they both are. “Are you part of the guard tonight?” Sirius asks him. “Because you look dead on your feet.”

Harry wants to laugh, but instead he just leans into him when Sirius wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him against his chest. “Hmm, no,” he mumbles sleepily, and then, “Sirius, sleep with me.”

Sirius’ breathing hitches. “Sweetheart,” he whispers. “Don’t push me.”

“Just in my bed, nothing more.”

“Harry, stop, please.”

“I just don’t want to be alone tonight,” Harry mutters.

*

Sirius burns hot, so differently from Shard’s icy cold body. Harry doesn’t shiver and shake when he slims an arm over Sirius’ waist and props a leg up, doesn’t wish for more blankets that hardly make a difference considering where the cold comes from. Sirius’ heart is beating fast, but so is Harry’s, and Sirius asked for Harry not to push, but he’s close, he’s there, he’s _alive_ , and Harry dares to press their lips together briefly, just enough to make him real.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Sirius croaks instead of telling him off, wiping away unbidden tears. “It’ll be okay, I swear.”

But it won’t.

*

In the morning, Harry wakes with a headache, alone.

*****

The siege lasts four days.

Harry feels barely conscious for it, living only in the moment because to do otherwise is too painful to deal with without someone there to shoulder half the burden. Throughout the week the pattern repeats. _Sirius, Shard, Sirius, Shard_ , but never both present on the same day. It haunts Harry, the knowledge that at any moment this could stop and he could lose both, because clearly something’s going on with him. He just doesn’t know what, only that he doesn’t want it to end in fear of being alone entirely.

He doesn’t speak of it with Ron and Hermione, though they know of it. They remember their conversation in its entirety in the abandoned art classroom, including the parts where Harry all but screamed in their well-meaning faces. He makes sure to apologise for it, and he can tell they’ve forgiven him for it, even before his stammering apology.

Harry goes along with the tide, the waves pulling him wherever. 

*

The first day of the siege is mostly spent panicking. All throughout the castle there’s people running back and forth to take inventory of what they have. The only way out is the Floo in some of the quarters, so it’s not truly like a siege, but they’re definitely surrounded and should they leave, the Death Eaters will surely take the castle.

There are no reinforcements coming, this they know. The ministry will hardly pull their precious aurors from where they’re stationed guarding the building, just to help them, though perhaps, is the hopeful thought at any rate, they’ll send supplies should this stalemate take too long.

Shard is a reassuring presence at his side throughout that first day.

*

The wards hold strong throughout the second day. The Death Eaters have decided to ram them with spells, all sorts of spells, they don’t seem to discriminate, believing the collisions will cause a hole in them that they can then use to tear them down, as if they’re some physical barrier to overcome. Harry wanders the grounds, careful to keep within the circle indicated by the torches. Some of the Death Eaters lurking about see him and sneer at him, casting spells at the dome that are then absorbed by the magic, but they quickly see the futility in it and stop.

That doesn’t mean the wards are going to hold forever.

The second day also finds Harry wandering the battlements, curiously leaning over the stones to watch what’s going on below. From the corner of his eyes he can see the dome shimmer, but whenever he tries to focus on it, it disappears, out of reach. He decides he likes the peace up here, as if nothing can touch him, and nobody will think to look for him here, completely invisible and forgot about.

Shard likes the view, but he’s not here right now, Sirius walking the grounds in his stead. Maybe the man would enjoy the view as well, but that would mean giving up his secret spot. The only reason he got up here is because he dares to walk the wobbly planks that bridge a considerable gap in the stairs up there.

*

  
Near the end of the third day the wards are showing some wear and tear that is quickly repaired. The problem is that it costs them dearly to keep repairing it, because it leaves the person who does the repairs in a state where they’re definitely not able to fight for the next two days. 

“We should let them fall at a moment of our own choosing,” Moody says, “it’s not going to get any better and we’re losing valuable people just to repair them. It’s not sustainable.”

But others don’t agree, they feel safe within the wards, and while Harry agrees with Moody, he can’t blame them for feeling that way. It’s easy to feel safe, especially within the castle walls, unable to see the Death Eaters roaming the grounds outside the wards. Most of the adults need a reality check and the students need to _calm down_ , but their little general Neville is nervous, and of course they pick up on that.

*

“I wonder how they managed to convince their parents it’s safer here at Hogwarts than at home,” Sirius remarks on the fourth day during lunch together in Sirius’ room.

His room is on the first floor, close enough to the entrance hall that he was the first to arrive at the scene when the attack started. In another world, Harry might have left that alone, after all he’d promised not to push, but in this world Shard is gone and Sirius is inexplicably _alive_ , and why should he not push while he still has the chance? Screw holding on to that promise, what bloody use is it when Sirius is dead?

They already shared a bed, after all, and that went fine, though neither was unaffected by their proximity. It proved to Harry that Sirius still wants him, that Sirius had meant it when he said he’d wait. But Harry’s sick of waiting, his birthday is close anyway and they’re all preparing for some big battle when the wards finally fall and who knows who’ll survive that, so what does it matter at this point? 

What if one day Harry will wake up to find Sirius gone forever? 

How is he supposed to live with that?

“So,” Sirius begins all of a sudden, and he relaxes in his chair as he looks Harry up and down. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, biceps bulging under his T-shirt. “I died, huh,” he continues quietly, “in this dream of yours. Fancy that.”

Harry gulps around the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he whispers back. His throat is dry and his mouth is full of sand. “How do you know?”

His lips twitch upward. “Couldn’t help but overhear you screaming at your friends the other day.” His expression is as serious as ever. “So you’ve been having nightmares? Why didn’t you tell me? You know you could’ve come to me about them.”

“I didn’t want to burden you,” is the automatic response before Harry even realises he said it.

Sirius looks disappointed. “Harry, come now,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Harry replies.

*

Harry sneaks into his room that evening. “Can I sleep in your bed?”

From the bed, Sirius gives him a hard look but then lifts the covers with a trembling hand.

He gets under them, then sits up and straddles Sirius’ hips, the duvet around his shoulders like a makeshift cape. He leans forward, hands on Sirius’ bare chest.

“Don’t do this to me, Harry,” Sirius begs.

“Why? What use is waiting when you’re _dead_?” Harry asks roughly. “How can I—I just want to have this, with you.”

“They’re dreams, Harry,” Sirius says softly, stroking his cheek. “They’re nightmares.”

“But they’re so real,” Harry says hoarsely. “You don’t understand.”

Sirius’ smile is brittle. “If there’s anyone who understands nightmares, it’s me. Trust me, I understand,” he says, their mouths so close together it makes Harry tremble. “But I’ve never been able to tell you no, love, you know that. I’m just a man.”

He’s just a man.

Which means that if Harry keeps pushing, Sirius will give in, and they’re both aware. The question is whether Harry will go that far for it and whether the man will resent him for it. Maybe at first he will, but after that—surely it won’t—what does it matter? He’s old enough, no more a legal liability. They won’t arrest Sirius for taking him to bed, he’s seventeen after all, and Harry— 

Harry is almost eighteen and selfish enough that he _wants_.

“Love me, Sirius,” he whispers against Sirius’ mouth.

Sirius captures his lips and kisses him languidly at first, then it heats up quickly, yet even though it leaves Harry panting for more, his kisses taste like hollow victories.

*

The four of them are unable to sleep, meeting up in the hallway upstairs. There’s been a lot of bad news lately, and it affects everyone at Grimmauld Place, including the teenagers. They’re about to head downstairs when they Remus’ voice drift up from below. 

“Sirius, do you ever think about Mathy?” he asks.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny sit crouched at the top of the stairs with their ears perked, curious who they’re talking about. It’s rude to listen in, and Hermione tries to pull them away, but Harry is sixteen and nosy and he wants to know what they’re talking about.

There’s a beat of silence, then Sirius casually asks, “Mathilde who?”

“Sirius,” Remus says in his professor voice.

“Don’t take that tone with me, I know exactly who you meant, but that was the answer. No, I don’t think about her. Frankly, I don’t _want_ to think about her.”

“But aren’t you curious?”

“Let it go, Moony, please.”

“She moved to Finland, you know,” Remus says mildly. “But she came back four years ago.”

“Remus.”

“She lives in that residential area off of Hexagon Alley nowadays.”

“I swear to god, Remus, _stop_ it.”

“Petra knows Mathy’s younger brother, remember him?”

“Yeah, with the—the _hair_.”

Both men burst into laughter.

“Petra and Mathy met for tea the other day,” Remus continues shamelessly. “She said they talked about _you_ , among other things.”

At the top of the stairs, Ron turns to Harry and whispers, “Who is Petra?”

“Petra can shove it, I’m not interested,” Sirius says firmly.

“Petra Cassidy, she’s an auror,” Hermione whispers back.

“She has three children and she divorced six years ago, still single,” Remus tells Sirius.

Sirius snorts. “Yeah, okay, so?”

“So, maybe after all this is over you could—” 

“No.”

“—go for a coffee or something.” 

**“** _No._ ” Sirius sounds exasperated. “Remus, you said she’s three _kids_. What the fuck do you take me for? Some kind of—I don’t even know? But I know I’m not stepdad material.”

“She’s hardly looking for a stepfather for her kids,” Remus says with a huff. “You’re being dramatic. It’s just a drink.”

“And then from one thing comes another and suddenly you’re stuck with a girlfriend you never wanted in the first place and three children you had no hand in creating. You’re crazy if you think—Moony, stop that, I’m too old for that, I don’t _want_ kids, not even m—”

“At any rate!” Remus says loudly, laughter in his voice. “She still looks amazing.”

There’s a pause. “Does she really?”

“You’re too predictable, Pads.”

Sirius just chuckles. “How do you know she looks good anyway?”

“Petra gave me a photo.” Shuffling. “Here.”

“Shit, you’re right, she _does_ look good.”

“Must be odd to have someone your own age to look at for a change,” Remus says mildly.

“We’re going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” Sirius says sharply. “Is that why you’re so pushy?”

“No, I just want what’s best for you, and a date—” 

“A date! I fucking _knew_ it!”

“—with Mathy—oh would you _stop_ with the theatrics.”

At the top of the stairs, the four teenagers look at each other, each of them sad at the reminder that Sirius once had a life and a bright future, and a little bemused about the news of his ex-girlfriend that none of them had realised existed. 

Sirius has been working hard at building a new future instead of clinging to the past, trying to accept it, not quite yet ready to let go of it, the latter which is understandable. Remus and Sirius are mending their own bridges, trying to wade through years of distance and distrust and abandonment, but there’s still a visible layer of hurt between them.

“C’mon,” Hermione whispers again, grabbing Ron and Harry by the wrist and pulling them away from the railing, Ginny following them in contemplative silence.

*

Day four is when Moody finally gets his way.

Harry wakes up alone in the room that should be Sirius’ but stands empty now, Shard standing in front of the window looking out over some sort of courtyard Harry doesn’t know how to get to apart from just climbing out of the window. Harry just stares at the apparition for a while, drinking in the sight that he missed all of yesterday. When asked, Shard said he remembered yesterday just fine, but was vague on any of the conversations they had, which isn’t like him at all.

“I slept with Sirius,” Harry blurts out.

Shard turns to him with one perfect eyebrow raised. “Excuse me?”

Harry feels his face heat up. “I slept with Sirius last night.”

“Well, well,” Shard pauses delicately, “ _well_.”

“It was good, but.”

“But?” Shard's other eyebrow joins the first.

Harry looks away from the intense stare. “I think I forced him.”

Shard laughs long and hard at that. “ _Forced_ him, he says,” he snickers. “Harry, darling, let me let you in on a little secret: Sirius Black does nothing he doesn’t want to do. If anything, you probably played right into his hands.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Shard shrugs. “No skin off my back,” he says, already no longer caring about the topic.

*

They decide to force the walls down rather than wait for the inevitable to happen, the Death Eaters still obsessively hammering on the barrier. It chips away at its power slowly but surely, and Moody argues once more that it’s not sustainable, not if they wish to keep their numbers and their health up, and so finally it’s decided that he’s right.

_Finally_.

The Death Eaters seem to smell this, or more likely those inside Hogwarts just have a traitor in their midst, and they gather on the grounds outside the barrier, just standing there, watching them with open disdain and disgust, wands up and ready.

Hogwarts’ generals direct their soldiers to strategic places, most of which goes straight over Harry’s head because he hasn’t been involved in their training at all; when Neville and Ginny tell him about progress, he just nods and agrees and that is that.

They spend all day preparing and going over strategies and directing people and setting traps until it just repeats itself out of nerves and anticipation and anxiety. The Death Eaters laugh at this farce of keeping busy, as if they have long since realised that nothing will really prepare either side for the sheer amount of death that’s waiting for them when the wards fall.

Harry hums about bridges and nails, drumming his fingertips on the war table while McGonagall holds a speech in front of them and Shard sends him a concerned look but Harry ignores it in favour of inwardly freaking out over the fact that he may never see Sirius again and that he may have botched things up considerably the last time they saw each other. There was no morning after for him to make things right again, and tomorrow the wards will fall and there will be death and despair and nothing will ever be the same again and Harry is tired, so _tired_.

*

Harry falls asleep in his own bed with Shard’s cold presence wrapped around him, but he doesn’t dream. He wakes up early, the sun just rising in the red sky, and he is alone. He showers, brushes his teeth, slips into his clothes, puts on his boots, ties the laces and doesn’t think much beyond the fact that this sunrise might be someone’s last.

It might be his.

But would that be so bad, really?

There is no haughty Tom Marvolo Riddle lodged in his brain to tell him off for those types of thoughts, no lecture coming on the importance to live life to its fullest for the both of them, but Harry can imagine it just fine, and he tries to shrug the depressing thoughts off as best as he can but it clings to him like grime he can’t wash off.

When he enters the Great Hall, he’s swallowed up by more planning. He plays along, nodding in the right places, making small noises to assure them he’s listening. He pretends with the rest of them all that things will all be alright, but he knows that for some people it won’t be, because they will be _dead_ , like his parents, like Sirius, who is still sleeping most likely, perhaps even avoiding him, and Shard, who in accordance with the pattern has disappeared.

Hermione and Ron join him briefly at the war table, but they too get pulled into different directions, and Harry decides to check out the troops outside rather than sit inside and hide from reality the way some of the adults seem to be doing.

*

They drop the wards at noon, and then Harry doesn’t have time to think anymore.

It’s better that way.

*

For two days after what will later be dubbed _the Final Battle_ , Harry doesn’t sleep.

They spend hours cataloguing the damage, cleaning up the battlefield. It’s near bloodless, something Harry hadn’t expected, because when he thinks of wars and battles, he thinks of blood spatter and injuries, and perhaps, if he really thinks about it, medieval weaponry or even guns. Surveying the grounds, however, all he sees is spotless death.

When he sees them again, Hermione and Ron are tired and rundown. He only sees them briefly, the chaos around them mounting and reaching a peak around dawn, Sirius nowhere to be seen and Shard’s silence ringing in his ears.

There is no glory to be found in the aftermath of battle, there are only dead bodies and rain soaking makeshift blankets lying in the mud until they find more room for stretchers inside Hogwarts itself.

Harry helps where he can and simply watches from a distance where he can’t. Healing was never his strongest suit, so when all that’s left is cleaning up rubble and tending to the injured, he stays out of the way as much as possible. His body feels like it’s made of lead when he finally walks through the castle on the second day after the battle, the quietude around him unnerving in a way. He’s never been at Hogwarts in the summer, he doesn’t know these halls lifeless and empty, even the statues keeping still.

“Harry, there you are,” Ron says, slightly out of breath.

“Have you seen Sirius?” Harry hears himself ask.

Ron’s expression speaks volumes, red-rimmed eyes. There’s not exactly pity on his face, but it’s something Harry doesn’t like regardless. “Harry, mate, don’t you remember?” 

“Remember what?” Harry asks, and his voice cracks, because he does remember, doesn’t he?

“He’s dead, Harry. He died last week, at the ministry.”

“At the ministry,” Harry repeats, feeling hollowed out. His throat closes up. “No,” he whispers, and a harsh cold makes itself at home in his bones. His hands tremble with the sudden anguish coursing through his veins and he feels too hot for his skin and too cold for his thin robes. He clenches his fists and takes a shuddering breath. “No, he was supposed to be here. _No_.”

“Yes.”

“ _No_ , Ron, you’re mistaken,” Harry says, shaken. “Sirius is fine. I saw him—I _saw_ him!”

But he didn’t, did he? Harry hasn’t seen him in how many days now? He swallows thickly as reality refuses to settle in. It can’t have been Sirius, because Sirius is too full of life just yet, still making up for lost time and working _so_ hard on letting go of the past, fueled by a desperation to recover and make the most out of his days. So no, it can’t have been Sirius, it’s unthinkable, it’s unfair.

Harry starts walking again, footsteps echoing loudly through the empty hallway.

It’s just not true. He’s just waiting somewhere, waiting for Harry to return.

“Harry,” the redhead calls after him.

Harry ignores his calls and keeps walking, fingers trailing the stone walls as he goes along, steadfastly ignoring what is but what shouldn’t be. He climbs stairs as he ignores memories of better days, of Hermione sipping her water calmly while Ron bursts into laughter and leans with one hand on the map on the table between them, of Sirius and Remus greeting them in the kitchen later when the remainder of the Order convenes for tea.

“Shard,” Harry murmurs to himself as he stops in front of Dumbledore’s old office. “ _Tom_.”

But the silence keeps, and Harry’s eyes sting with acknowledgment.

*

The pyres burn brightly throughout the night, the smell of burning human flesh and wood and sage thick in the air, the drums like a secondary heartbeat. Harry stands on the battlements, leaning forward on the gritty stone wall, and he watches until his eyes start to feel heavy with exhaustion. Between one blink and the next, he sinks to his knees, ignoring the way the stones chafe at his skin like sandpaper. He curls up with the sounds of the living in his ears and the smell of the dead in his nostrils, and when sleep finally comes to claim him, he’s dancing with ghosts.

But there are no dreams.

There is only the hollow space of _what could have been_.

He is alone.

_London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down..._

~fin.

**Author's Note:**

> So, we're done. I... am not sure how it turned out, but like I said, I'm okay with it? So yeah. I added the tag "Don't Examine This Too Closely" because lol pls don't ask me how or why the Awake thing happened, just know that it happened ^^" I just wanted to play around with it, so um. _Handwave_.


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